He was awake before the statement released.
He had set an alarm for six-fifty, which was unnecessary because he had not slept past four, but the alarm gave the morning a shape that felt useful. Something to orient toward. A time that meant something was happening rather than time just passing.
He got up.
Made tea. The good kind, not the hospital vending machine kind. Protein-heavy things Dr. Yuen had been specific about. The crackers that still helped, which she had noted at the last appointment with the satisfied neutrality of someone whose instructions were finally being followed consistently.
He sat at the kitchen table.
Juno's door was still closed.
The apartment was quiet in the specific way of early Sunday mornings — the city doing a slower version of itself outside, the sounds lower and less urgent.
At six-fifty-nine his phone lit up.
Statement published. Distribution confirmed.
He opened it.
